The Boardinghouse: A Return To Ivy Log

By Sue Chamblin Frederick

Paula Jennings considers herself the epitome of Southern aristocracy as she lords over the residents of Ivy Log, a small Appalachian hamlet high in the Georgia mountains. In Paula’s eyes, only she has the wisdom--and the authority--to decide the replacement for the venerable Reverend Cobb, who passed away unexpectedly after ministering to the community for decades.

The Reverend William Johnson possesses a doctorate from the Harvard Divinity School, along with outstanding references. A phone interview, in which Paula finds his perfect elocution and the power in his voice a joy to behold, makes her decision easy. Great fanfare attends the day of the new pastor’s arrival, orchestrated of course by Paula. And when William Johnson walks through the doorway of Pyune Murphy’s family restaurant--The Boardinghouse--the one spot in Ivy Log where anyone who is anybody eats and whiles away the time in this almost all-white town--there is just one problem: William Johnson is black as midnight.

The Boardinghouse, with its romantic underpinnings, extends beyond race and small-minded prejudice. The down-home, warm narrative takes the reader into the heart and soul of the mixed-race owner of The Boardinghouse and her simple but elegant representation of life as not black nor white but somewhere in-between. Along the way, Ivy Log’s truths are revealed; some good and some bad, but always unexpected, not the least being that the “thought-to-be-perfect” deceased preacher had a lover.

The characters in The Boardinghouse will send you on a wild ride down the snow-covered mountains to the New York headquarters of Bakers' World Magazine and on to the campus of Harvard University before ultimately returning to the hot fires of The Boardinghouse kitchen -- as one way or another peace returns to Ivy Log . . . or does it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sue Chamblin Frederick
• Release date: Feb 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311067760

Sue Chamblin Frederick

She is known as a sweet Southern belle, a woman whose eyelashes are longer than her fingers, her lips as red as a Georgia sunset. Yet, behind the feminine facade of a Scarlett-like ingénue, lies an absolute and utterly calculating mind – a mind that harbors hints of genius – a genius she uses to write books that will leave you spellbound. A warning! When she writes spy thrillers, she’s dangerous - only six degrees from a life filled with unimaginable adventures – journeys that will plunge her readers into a world of breath-taking intrigue. Put a Walther PPK pistol in her hand and she will kill you. Her German is so precise, she’d fool Hitler. Her amorous prowess? If you have a secret, she will discover it – one way or the other. When she writes romance, her characters will seduce you and wile you away into stories of titillating passion. The author was born in north Florida in the little town of Live Oak, where the nearby Suwannee River flows the color of warm caramel, in a three-room, tin-roofed house named “poor.” Her Irish mother’s and English father’s voices can be heard even today as they sweep across the hot tobacco fields, “Susie, child, you must stop telling all those wild stories.” The author lives with her Yankee husband in the piney woods of north Florida where she is compelled to write about far away places and people whose hearts require a voice. Her two daughters live their lives running from a mother whose imagination keeps their lives in constant turmoil with stories of characters with apple-rotten hearts and plots that cause the devil to smile.

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The Boardinghouse

A Return To Ivy Log

Sue Chamblin Frederick

Other books by Sue Chamblin Frederick

The Juan Castillo Spy Series:

The Unwilling Spy

Madame Delafloté, Impeccable Spy

The Ivy Log Series:

Grandma Takes A Lover

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Sue CHAMBLIN Frederick

All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the prior express written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of the author's rights.

ISBN: 978-0-9852104-6-5

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Acknowledgments

To my five brothers and sisters who thought my wild imagination was dangerous – see, you guys, I’ve channeled that imagination into terrific novels.

To Robert (Rob) L. Bacon of The Perfect Write who tirelessly contributes his wisdom of the writing world to both published and unpublished authors. His manuscript evaluation and editing are solid gold! You’re still the smartest guy I know, Rob.

To Steve W. Johnson, the best layout person in the world and author of Not Much Of A Crime, Pier Pressure and others.

To Steve Guthrie, International Program Director, Mountain Madness, for his mountain climbing and rescue expertise.

To the folks at Jim’s Smokin’ Que in Blairsville, Georgia. They do barbecue just right!

A big Thank You to Ted and Alease Kelly at The Inn at Folkston. Their bed and breakfast is snuggled away in Folkston, Georgia, where an abundance of Southern hospitality awaits.

To the eagle eyes of the proofers: Gary Frederick, Brenda Cochrane and Iris Whittington – you never miss a thing!

And, to the folks of Ivy Log, Georgia, for letting me take literary liberties in building their fictitious town. Before I began work on The Boardinghouse, I traveled to Ivy Log to get a feel for the town…but there was no town. Ivy Log is a community of wonderful mountain folk who live at the top of Georgia. So, I gave them a town with a Main Street, The Church of Ivy Log, The Boardinghouse and a town square with the tallest blue spruce in Georgia. Thank you, Ivy Log!

VISIT THE AUTHOR AT: www.suechamblinfrederick.com

Part 1

Chapter 1

A small town has a distinct rhythm, like the bumblebee’s constant hum or the slow unrolling of molasses from a glass jar. So, it was no surprise when the dawdling pace of that summer manifested itself into boredom; a swelling monotony that could only be relieved by fervent gossip, malicious tittle-tattle that pushed the little town into the throes of a passionate fury. But, that was only the beginning.

The ruckus began not long ago around noon in The Boardinghouse Restaurant in Ivy Log, Georgia, where the whispers of disgruntled folk had begun well before daylight. The whispers evolved into rumblings about a lemon pudding cake, a concoction so delicious that folks drove from all over Union County every Tuesday to stake their claim to the little scoop of heaven that was baked in the hot ovens of The Boardinghouse.

In small towns, the work of the devil is exceedingly easy – perhaps because of the latent boredom combined with the shallow thinking of its inhabitants. After all, what else is there to do on lazy days when the winds of discontent blow across the faces of folks who need just one small reason to gossip, to evoke hard feelings, to find fault in the most miniscule aspects of another’s life?

Even a zealous sermon at The Church of Ivy Log that extolled the significance of The Ten Commandments did not prevent naughtiness from simmering among the pews or darkening the hearts of devout worshippers. The same sermon that encouraged loving thy neighbor and forgiving trespasses failed to deter the wickedness that sometimes crept into the lives of those who were, for the most part, good people. A good, however, that for some was purely for show.

Oh, if only Paula Jennings hadn’t bragged that the renowned cake recipe had originated in her family 50 years earlier. When Pyune Murphy heard that, she asked to see the so-called Jenning’s recipe. Paula’s face twisted into a smirk, and her turquoise eyeshadow seemed to darken.

Well, Pyune, honey, you know I don’t give out that recipe to anyone…especially you.

No one really knows what happened next. They just know that the two women had a catfight at The Boardinghouse - in front of the crowd that was waiting in line for their lemon pudding cake.

Though the recipe loomed at the forefront of the brouhaha, the real issue simmered underneath and festered there, much like the wound from a fishhook on an already tender finger. It was all about love.

~~~

The summer lost itself in the leaves that fell at the end of October, spreading a false peace throughout Ivy Log and settling quietly among the daily lives of its citizens.

Far to the north, winter waited impatiently, the old man with the white beard and the large belly chatting fervently with the snow makers of the universe. Together, they decided on a glorious, white winter for Ivy Log. The massive storm began humbly in western Canada and moved east, the whispers of wind and snow becoming a roaring giant that ended up in the Appalachians, with weather considered worse than The Great Appalachian Storm of 1950.

The snow came - 23 inches of it – leaving the small town a perfect template for the winter-wonderland pictures on the December pages of millions of calendars.

Sitting high in the north Georgia mountains, Ivy Log proclaimed itself as the loveliest town in the Appalachians, its citizens boasting a Christmas tree almost as tall as Brasstown Bald, an exaggeration of course.

The spruce, 30-feet tall and decorated with yards of gold garland, had survived the onslaught of the storm, but unrelenting wind and heavy wet snowflakes had caused the limbs to sag like a tired old man.

Children with sleds zipped down Main Street until daylight faded; the promise of more snow during the night becoming the topic of exhilarating conversations at dinner, since it was understood that snow brought Christmas — and Christmas brought presents.

~~~

In the early morning, long before the resident rooster found his voice — and hours away from the arrival of the December sun — Pyune Murphy turned on the cavernous ovens at The Boardinghouse, the soft pop of the gas the only noise in the cold kitchen. While coffee brewed, she waited at the window and watched one of the restaurant’s many cats amble down the top of the woodpile, then gingerly pick its way across the frozen ground to the tin pan it hoped would hold scraps of food later in the morning. Pyune tapped on the window and the blue eyes of the longhaired tabby found hers, a begging meow pantomiming through its long whiskers, a wisp of snow lingering in them.

Along the front of the restaurant, Main Street lay deserted and wrapped in snowflakes seemingly spitted from an irritable sky. At the corner of Mulberry and Elm, the upstairs bedroom — in Adela Queen Harper’s rambling white house — was empty. She lay nine miles away, at Nottely Lake, in the arms of Frank Carberry, his breathing slow and constant as she reached over and smoothed his cheek.

Conversely, in her two-story brick house on Dellwood Avenue, Paula Louise Jennings slept alone in the master bedroom, magnolia wallpaper wrapping around the walls as if the room were in perpetual bloom. It was here that Wiley Hanson had made love to her the previous evening.

At this very moment, however, high in the Appalachians, Wiley Hanson pushed his chainsaw into a felled oak a quarter of a mile from the top of Brasstown Bald. He cut up several limbs and piled fireplace-length logs into the back of his pickup truck and headed to town, thoughts of Pyune’s hot biscuits on his mind.

~~~

The wind switched direction, now coming from the northwest and bringing fast-scudding clouds high above Ivy Log, as if they were in a hurry to meet up with mountain ranges farther east. Pyune looked up from her bowl of cake batter and held the spoon in the air, a flutter coming to her chest. The changing weather reminded her of anticipating Christmas morning when she was a little girl — and not knowing what to expect.

Adela stirred in Frank’s arms and opened her eyes. She sat up and watched the faint light of the breaking dawn peek through the pitchfork branches of winter trees. She left the bed and walked down the hall to the window that faced the lake and saw a wedge of Canada geese atop the tree line. When she looked at the morning sky, the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

On Dellwood Avenue, Paula pulled the covers over her head and talked in her sleep. She even yelled out once. Something about the devil. She sat up straight in bed when her pillow fell to the floor with a thump. Is anybody there? she hollered. There was no reply.

Wiley slowed his truck on the narrow mountain road above Ivy Log and looked down at the small, sleepy town, the warm light from The Boardinghouse windows promising the best coffee this side of Chattanooga.

Chapter 2

At sunrise, the preacher left the busy highways of Atlanta and turned onto the road leading northeast to Ivy Log, his worn bible in the seat beside him. His cat, Delilah, slept in the back window of his late-model Buick, unconcerned about where her master was going or whether the pulpit would be welcoming.

Chapter 3

Wiley banged a snow-encrusted, gloved fist on the back door of The Boardinghouse and stamped his feet while he waited in the cold dark of the early morning. He heard one of the woodpile cats meow behind him as Pyune opened the door.

Lordy! If I don’t get a hot cup of coffee real quick, I do believe I am a dead man. Frozen like one of them carcasses they find in the Hens-A-Laying.

I will assume you meant Himalayas and not Hens-A-Laying, Pyune said.

Not commenting, he stepped into the warm kitchen and shuddered, the snow from his boots tracking the worn oak planks. He removed his gloves and studied the cups hanging from a row of hooks under a spice shelf, looking for a mug stained brown with coffee — one for serious coffee drinking.

Wiley said, High today gonna be twenty-three. If you ask me, that’s cold. He chose a thick mug, its faded image of Roy Rogers and Trigger making him smile.

Yes, it’s cold. Colder than it was yesterday. Pyune poured his coffee and pulled out a kitchen chair. Did you bring me some firewood?

Course, I did. Got to unload it, but I thought I’d get a cup of coffee first. Got any biscuits made yet?

They’re in the oven, she said, now sitting across from him. Do all your firewood customers feed you biscuits? Or am I the only one?

Well, here’s the way I see it, Pyune. Your biscuits are made with real butter, and my granny used to make them with real butter. It’s what makes them so good. I won’t eat other folks’ biscuits because I do believe they use fake butter.

He laughed and then scowled. I’m of the opinion that God did not intend for things to be fake. And that includes people too. Pyune gave him one of her hard looks.

Wiley took a deep breath and eyed her deviously, What?

I didn’t expect a lecture on biscuits. she said.

Well, that’s what you got. Now, hand me over one or two a them biscuits. He slurped his coffee and settled back.

Not ready yet. Drink your coffee and keep your britches on.

He looked away and chuckled to himself.

Wiley Hanson was an enigma, as evidenced by the incongruities in his life as well as his personality. He was a mountain man, as he liked to call himself, but unknown to most folks, he’d earned a doctorate in environmental engineering from Georgia Tech. Yet despite his lofty intellectual credentials, he remained a simple man. Regardless, his mountain twang and atrocious grammar combined with a hint of higher education to create a remarkable mixture of corn pone and academia.

He cultivated this guise hoping his college-infused intellect wouldn’t alienate him from his true roots: the mountains and mountain life. To expose his intelligence would deny him the pureness of who he really was.

Though his Ph.D. cemented his love of wisdom, he had looked in the mirror one day as he trimmed his beard and saw the clearness of his eyes and felt the truth of his existence. When he leaned closer and studied the mix of gray, white and black in the wiry hair on his face, he wondered if there were a secret message, hieroglyphics maybe, resting there; a puzzle, a sign, a hidden meaning that had been placed there by those who came before him; a message that would give him assurances that it was all right to have left the mountains and gone to the city to become educated; that it hadn’t changed him.

He had left the manicured campuses and the stately brick buildings and returned to the mountains as Wiley, a man whose genes carried the blood of his ancestors. He’d never let his heritage go, although he would admit that more than once he’d been tempted to do so — and always by a woman.

There is something else I’d like to know. Pyune’s skin shimmered in the kitchen light, her eyes black marbles of laughter. What about this new preacher that’s coming here?

What about him? Wiley asked, finishing his coffee and Pyune pouring him another.

I’m thinking, Pyune said, refilling her own cup, if he doesn’t get here fairly soon, Paula will get up in that pulpit and do the preaching herself.

Wiley gave his hee-haw laugh and shook his head. Can you imagine that? Her red hair flying everywhere while she pounds the bible and tells everyone, ‘You’re goin’ to hell.’

Pyune slapped her hand on the table in a fit of laughter. Then, her eyes would roll back into her head and she’d proclaim the devil was in the rafters of the church, and unless we confessed our sins, we would all be lost. She groaned. The sooner that new preacher gets here, the better.

I hear Thursday, Wiley said, grinning. Just in time to be settled and preaching Christmas morning?

Most likely, Pyune said. Paula’s got everything arranged. You know how she is.

Wiley tilted his cup, coffee spilling and Pyune tossing him a napkin. Paula tells me she’s organizing a big reception for him for Friday night.

Pyune narrowed her eyes at Wiley. You and Paula seeing each other?

Oh, who knows, Pyune? That woman done yanked me all over the place. Keeps saying she wants to get married. Wiley wiped his hands over his face in frustration. Being married to that redhead would be purely awful.

Doesn’t seem awful enough for you to stay away from her.

Wiley gave a sheepish look. Well, now, cain’t say it’s all bad.

The twinkle in his eyes did not go unnoticed by Pyune. Don’t expect any sympathy from me if she dumps you.

Wiley drank the last of his coffee, which Pyune again replenished. Don’t you worry about me and Paula. He glanced at the stove. How many of them biscuits did you make?

Pyune found a potholder and opened the oven door. I made enough. Nice and brown. Want gravy or just a piece of ham?

Just a slice of ham, said Wiley, leaning over and watching the slim but very healthy woman take the pan of biscuits from the stove.

Her hair lay close to her head and pulled back into a knot the size of one of her yeast rolls. Her profile was regal, a queen whose subjects were the throngs of people who ate her lemon pudding cake and pined for her succulent meatloaf with tiny bits of green peppers.

Her great grandfather was a Cherokee from high in the North Carolina mountains, and he’d married a daughter of one of Thomas Jefferson’s slaves. If you saw anyone hereabouts with light caramel skin and laughing black eyes, most likely they were kin to Pyune.

She turned toward him, and he experienced the same butterflies in his stomach that he’d felt for years whenever he was near her. Their smokehouse dalliances had slowed, but his memories remained. Soft touches, smells of honeysuckle and fried tomatoes on her skin. Their friendship was comfortable, but the presence of Paula Jennings floated around the edge, taunting and causing a hint of malcontent – at times maybe more than just a touch.

Coming by for lunch? she asked him.

Most likely.

Pyune handed Wiley a biscuit and looked down at him. Her hand lingered on his for a moment as she said, I don’t give a damn about Paula – but I do care about you.

It was the first time Wiley had ever heard Pyune cuss.

Chapter 4

Monday’s menu, scrawled on the chalkboard hanging by The Boardinghouse’s double-oak doors, promised chicken and dumplings, along with turnips, mashed potatoes, rutabagas, carrot salad, candied yams and collards. Turnips was misspelled turneps, but if anybody noticed no one said as much.

The table that faced the street next to the bay window in the front of the restaurant was known as the Paula Jennings’s table. Right along with the scars of time, 30 years of gossip and secrets were engrained in the polished oak,

On this day, prim and proper, her back straight, her hands demurely in her lap, Paula – ever the starlet – was certain that everyone had eyed her when she arrived and also that they had admired the fur collar on the wool coat bought in New York City.

Her bright-red lipstick accentuated the smile she wore, perhaps a prelude to the exciting event that was about to take place: The new preacher was coming!

Paula’s stature in Ivy Log was established when, years earlier, she’d voted no to the building of a Hardee’s on the south side of town, not far from Ivy Log Creek, the spot where Main Street ended at hwy 129. Her stand had resulted in spats, accusations, and threats from those who felt she had no vision.

I’m a conservationist, she had replied. And her faux charm had swayed the town council from authorizing the razing of a 160-year-old brick building with a façade displaying large pockmarks made by Union bullets and now holding the sign Patton’s Drugstore.

But, it wasn’t about conservation – it was about money. Paula didn’t own the proposed Hardee’s property, but she did own two acres north of town, and she was willing to wait until the fast-food chain decided it was a better location.

And, now, through Paula’s doing, the new preacher was coming, the man who would lead The Church of Ivy Log in its 145th year as the community’s oldest place of worship. Sure, a hiring committee had been organized to find a replacement for the deceased Pastor Aldelpheus Cobb, but it was Paula who’d led everyone in the direction God had instructed her to follow. It was that simple. Everything she did was God inspired; therefore, questions were unnecessary.

She waved as each member of the selection committee entered the restaurant. And she called out, Yoo hoo. But there was no need for her to act as though no one could find her. The table in front of the bay window had been hers for three decades, and she sat like a queen on this snowy, cold December day waiting to do God’s work on behalf of the citizens of Ivy Log.

Paula caught Pyune’s eye. Hot coffee for everyone, Pyune.

Pyune didn’t move. Instead, her gaze roamed the dining room and fell on the dessert table. The pound cake was about gone. Paula snapped her fingers, but Pyune ignored her once more and wandered over to Frank and Adela, who were sitting quietly and drinking coffee.

Hi, folks, Pyune said, chirping the words. What’s got you out on this cold day?

Adela laughed. Why else would we travel nine miles over snow-covered, icy roads if it wasn’t for your fried chicken livers?

Pyune smiled wide. Ah, they’re good too. How about you, Mr. Frank? You like chicken livers?

Nothing can keep me from your chicken and dumplings. Let Adela have the chicken livers. Frank winked at Adela.

Pyune smiled at her. We need to be thinking about your wedding cake. Tiny cream roses and a trail of soft green leaves all around?

Perfect.

Naw, said Frank. Make that cake with –

The sound of snapping fingers flew across the room again as Paula’s voice shrieked above the crowd. Pyune, bring the biscuits and cornbread.

Pyune turned around and slowly wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes holding Paula’s until the redhead looked away.

Adela patted Pyune on the arm. You go on. Your food is always worth waiting for. Don’t worry about us.

~~~